


Do Not Call List

by crality



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, micheoff, straight sex???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crality/pseuds/crality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is stuck in a dead end job and a dead end life. Nothing a little phone sex with a customer can't fix, though, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightbeanasshole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/gifts).



> Happy super late birthday to the person who is literally always inspiring the world, whether they mean to or not. Love you.

It’s the Saturday before Easter. Only a few money hungry bodies have skipped the egg hunts and big family brunches to work for the day. Michael is short on rent. Again. He would love to be at mom and dad’s house, helping the little cousins with egg dying or maybe cleaning out the garage with his uncle, getting ready for the annual barbecue they put together. But no. He’s at work. Like every Saturday for the past six months.

The office is cavernous without the fifty or so people pitching sales all day. Michael’s desk is at the end of a long row of cubicles and, thank god, against a wall. His only neighbor busses up to New York every weekend, so he is mercifully very alone for the day.

The place would be unbearable if it wasn't for one, Michael’s tough resolve and two, the pictures pinned on every surface of the ugly brown walls of the cubicle. When he’s 300 calls deep and can’t take another rejection, each face reminds him that he has a family that believes in him. This isn't forever. Some shitty call bank in New Jersey isn't the end of the road. This will end.

Today, though, Michael sits back with a hot cup of coffee and stares at his blank computer monitor and listens to the idle gossip of the couple of other poor souls scattered around the cubicles. His co-workers aren't the worst, but the nights he picks to grab a few drinks with them are few and far between.

He hears them make jokes. Light hearted joshing, as far as they know. _That movie was so gay_ or _she’s going through her bi phase_. He’s sure they’re as reluctant to hang out with him as he is with them. It’s fine. He keeps busy.

Michael has a section of photographs to unpin from his walls. He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyebrows pressed together as he exhales slow and warm, preparing. This is harder work than making calls. Reaching for the first photo sets him on edge, and he barely glances at the face looking up at him before flipping it over and leaving it on his desk. It’s quick work after that, but still difficult. Still painful.

He knows it’s not the end. He _will_ see Ray again. Someday. But somedays are hard. Scary.

Someday he’ll be out of New Jersey. Someday he’ll quit this stupid job. Someday he’ll have time for acting again, he’ll have time to make a reel, have time for headshots. Someday he’ll work with his hands, he can get dirty, he can feel accomplished.

Someday he’ll fall back in love with his best friend.

The photos fall into a neat stack between Michael’s hands and he tucks them away in his bag. He’ll find a place for them at home. He can’t really hide from shared memories there, anyway. He might as well have the photographs as reminders.

It’s already getting close to ten and Michael feels the lurch of expectancy in the pit of his stomach. He settles back into his chair and scoots into his desk, tucking feet under each other and fitting his headset to one ear. He’s supposed to log at least 25 calls an hour, and he’s made none and been there since nine. If he doesn't speed through some dials he’s going to get the hour’s wage docked, and he can’t afford it. Not this week.

Every conversation is droll. Even when someone finally fucking answers, Michael can count the seconds it takes for them to realize their mistake. Pleasantries are exchanged, but as soon as Michael digs down into why he’s calling, any small talk is thrown out the window. People scream at him. Call him names usually reserved for the ugliest of road rages. Sometimes they just hang up and that’s okay. Infuriating, though, because it means he can’t code them as definitive no’s, but they’re someone else’s problem, now. 

The worst calls, in all honesty, are the fake assholes. The people who listen to the whole script, attentive and responsive and even kind. Michael can hear the smiles in their voices and the hope builds up inside of him. And then they turn. They don’t scream or hang up, they say things like “why don’t you find a real job” or “you sound too young to be doing this”. More than anything Michael wants to hang up in their faces. He wants to fight back. But all he can do is apologize for the inconvenience, hang up, and make another call. Die a little more.

He’s made 40 calls by the time his next cup of coffee is past due. 35 no answers, 5 busy signals, 4 not interested’s and 1 do not call. Productive Saturday. It’s close to noon when he sits back down with a cup of stagnant break room coffee and a bag of chips from the vending machine, and he fully expects to hit a long patch of people bitching at him for calling during their meal. As if he knows their schedules, knows when the honey ham hits the table.

He heaves a sigh as he settles back in, adjusting his headset so he’s still able to caffeinate. He busies himself with clicking around on his first lead, checking the details and cocking a brow as he notices some notes attached from the last few times he’d been called.

_Very quick to get off the phone - seemed busy. Small photography business._

_Checked with manager - buying potential very high. Keeping in pool so someone else can get something out of him, if they can keep him on the phone._

_Can’t get hold of him. Central time, try to call late._

Great. Michael rolls his eyes. Some difficult rich asshole with a hobby business is just what he needs in the middle of his Saturday. He doesn't even set his mug down as he dials, ready to get a voicemail and move on. His teeth clench as the automated voice lets him know he’ll have to suffer through one of those ringback songs as he waits. He braces for the usual classical garbage, but every bit of him falls to peace as a gentle country song croons through his headset.

Michael barely recognizes the song, but he knows it’s John Prine. The song sparks a distant memory - his mother would sing it to him late at night after too many glasses of wine. No one in his family had much of a folk or country disposition and Michael had never asked his mother why she loved the song so much. He squints hard, trying to gather the information from his memory, but the name of the song escapes him. Just as the chorus starts there’s a voice and Michael has to snap out of his concentration.

“Y'ello?” Michael shakes his head hard, stumbling on his words as he jump starts his brain. “Havin' trouble, buddy?”

After a quick reassessment of the screen - name, location, buying potential - Michael’s back to where he’d started. Talk the rich guy up, got it. He rewinds a little, realizing there’s a lilt to the man’s voice that he doesn't hear every day.

“Hi, there. I'm looking for Mr. Ramsey?” More than before, the conversation starts to go south. The man sounds breathy, like he’s moving. Running, even. There’s some kind of background noise just barely audible - water, maybe? Or a television.

“You found me, you can call me Geoff.” Ramsey huffs through repressed but labored breathing. The tone Michael couldn't pinpoint before is a little clearer and maybe even… flirtatious? Ugh. One of THOSE people. “How, uh, how can I help you, kiddo?”

“Well, _Mr. Ramsey_ , my name is Michael Jones from Bear Mountain Shredding Services. I wondered if you had a moment to talk?”

“For you, buddy? I've got three.” If Michael wasn't sure before, he is now. Ramsey’s voice may be strained, but the smirk on his face is audible. Michael’s mind goes blank for a second as he goes through his mental rolodex for reasons why this man could be out of breath _and_ flirting. His chest tightens and - god, no. Please, no. He doesn't have a script for this situation.

“Great! Great. Uhh, well, Mr. Ramsey, I know you’re… you’re busy and all, but we were calling small business owners in your area about-”

“Michael, please, give me some credit. Nothing but big business over here.” Michael sputters. He’s ashamed to be so caught off guard, but his mouth can’t catch up with his brain as he’s stunned into babbling. “Hey, don’t let me cut you off! Keep talking, I wanna hear what you’re selling.” Ramsey’s enthusiasm is peppered with quick breaths and muffled movements. Embarrassment floods Michael, his cheeks burning and surely a bright pink color.

“I’m just… I’m just, uh, calling about privacy…. er. About shredding services for your, um, company- sir, are you sure you can’t take this call another time?” Michael has his face in one hand, unable to keep himself from staring through his fingers at the name in bold on the screen. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Who _does_ this? And why hasn't Michael hung up, yet?

“Me? No. God, no, keep talking. It’s hard to get me on the phone, you wanna sell me something, do it now.”

Maybe the most rage-inducing, ridiculously stupid thing about this situation is that Ramsey’s voice is lovely. He’s relaxed, care-fucking-free. Michael swallows down jealousy. He’s stuck in a fishbowl of an office, day after day, and he would give anything to not care enough to jerk it on the phone with a salesguy. 

“Look,” He decides. He has to hang up. This is stupid. “If you’re _doing something_ , someone will call you another time.”

“You’re not gonna call me back, Michael?” Ramsey’s voice reflects such a playful disappointment that Michael falters again. Why does this guy keep using his name, and why does it sound so… interesting coming out of his mouth?

“No… Mr. Ramsey, I’m very uncomfortable with your, uh, your tone. I’d prefer it if someone else handled your follow up.”

“Aww, kid, you’re hurting my feelings.” He’s fucking kidding, right? “Come on, I've got some time, talk to me a little bit. It’s Saturday, you can’t be swamped… where are you from?”

Michael takes a quiet breath to give him some time to think. His hand bumps the little stack of photos still face down on his desk and he turns one over, thumb tracing the outline of his boyfriend… his ex-boyfriend’s face. Fuck. There’s no point in denying that he’s craving something like this. Something unexpected and wild. Something right then and not someday. He leans into his chair, glancing down the long empty row of cubicles, before scooting as far into his desk as possible.

“I’m, uh, I’m from New Jersey.”

“There’s desk jobs in Jersey? I thought it was all bar hoppers and sports fans.” This isn't the raunchy flirting Michael had expected and he breaths a little laugh, shoulders not quite at attention anymore.

“Mostly Snookis and soccer moms. But everyone’s gotta make a living.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you make a killing with that smooth mouth.” Okay, that’s more like it. Michael tenses again, but Ramsey is giggling a little as his own joke, and he realizes he’s being made fun of. “Hope it’s not commission based.”

“Hey, asshole, I’m not the one masturbating to their telemarketing representative.” The call goes silent. Michael fucked up. He panics, ready to hang up and to walk out and into the street and never return. He’ll run away. Pack a fresh pair of underwear and disappear and change his name. Holy shit, if anything, he is so fucking fired.

“You think I’m jerking off?” More silence.

“Well… I mean. Yeah. It sounds like it.”

“You… you thought?” Ramsey’s openly mocking him, now, laughing loud and clear without moving the phone from his face. “Christ al-fucking-mighty, no wonder you bumbled your way through every sentence! Holy shit! Holy shit, wait, let me tell my _dog_ that I am _bathing_.”

Michael considers the fact that he may be more mad than he ever had been before in his whole life. His usual expletive laden rage is replaced by silent, seething, embarrassed anger. He wants to lay into Ramsey, to scream at him until the man is too ashamed to respond. But his own shame is winning. Instead, he hovers a hand over the phone, and right as Ramsey swings into another wave of laughter, he hangs up.

“What a fucking asshole.” Michael immediately erupts, keeping his volume as low as he can manage, but wishing he could kick his desk over. Wishing he could punch through his monitor or storm through the building and into the street, phone in his hand, and kick the stupid fucker into pieces. Instead he rips his headset off of his face, pushing his chair into the aisle and heading for… God, nowhere. There’s nowhere to go, to hide and fume. He stands there uselessly, catching a glance from a curious coworker before flopping back into his chair.

He’s pouting. He knows there’s nothing he can do but pout. The shame is nestled in a corner of his chest and he starts the work it takes to hide away this memory. He’ll save it for his darkest nights of self loathing, when every wrong choice returns to stab him clean through.

Lunch. He should get lunch.

He marks Geoff Ramsey as a refusal and packs his bag. He stuffs the pictures of Ray into a side pocket, suddenly filled with a cold apathy. Fuck him. Fuck him for ending the best relationship he’d had in his life. Fuck this job for making him into a small man. Fuck Geoff Ramsey for laughing at him when he’d finally tried to be big.

To his horror, Michael finds a heat creeping through the cold. A burning at the corner of his eyes. Every muscle in his face goes tight as he closes off the dam. He’s not that far gone. He won’t cry at work. He won’t. The more he fights it, the more it builds, but the elevator doors open and he’s strong again. He hefts his bag further up his shoulder and shoves his way out into downtown New Jersey. 

Michael finds himself in one of the only places open on the weekends - a burger joint that closes at two. He’s never been out of work early enough to stop by. Every item on the menu makes his stomach swim, anxiety churning his insides. He settles on a kid’s grilled cheese and some french fries and lets himself order a beer to wash it down. As he steams, vaguely keeping an eye on some sports game playing at the bar, he considers never going back upstairs.

He’ll pack his shit and catch a bus. Grab some commercial gigs, get an agent, maybe do some small plays in New York. Fuck it, right? He’d end up famous or homeless, and either one was better than this.

Auto pilot leaves him three beers deep in under an hour and Michael is quick to realize he’s chicken. He’ll never leave that cubicle. He might as well stamp his job title on his forehead, and he would if he didn't think it would get him fired.

Heavy contentment fills Michael up, that emotional dam of his solid and impenetrable. He pays his bill and lugs a cumbersome body back to its cage, finding the office mostly empty for the day. He settles into his chair, head heavy and sluggish, and lets his bag lay where it falls.

He has a voicemail.

That’s fucking impossible. It’s the weekend, the receptionist isn't there. Michael tries not to think about the fact that the message could be from Ramsey. The man would have had to patiently listen to the after hours recording and sort through every name of every caller in the building, and on top of all that he’d have to remember Michael’s name. It has to be someone else. His mother, maybe. His cousins calling to tell him about their Easter eggs. Anything other than a violent reminder that he’d probably be jobless on Monday.

Michael manages to ignore the message for a whole hour. An entire hour of making calls disappears as he frets, going so far as to place a sheet of notebook paper over the flashing voicemail light. He doesn't get any sales, stumbling over conversations all day because he knows he can’t put it off forever, and his conscience won’t let him delete the message unheard.

It’s almost two. Michael stretches his arms over his head, scooting out of his desk and onto his feet to take a quick break before diving into his own doom. He leans on his cubicle and swings one arm, hoping for a good pop in his back. For just a minute, as he stares over the empty office, everything is still. Normal. It could be any Saturday with everybody gone home early and Michael left trying to get in as many hours as he can.

There’s no hiding it, though. Michael has a voicemail.

He groans out loud, a little looser now that he knows he’s alone, and uncovers his phone. The little red light is too ominous for his liking and he rubs his face up and down to avoid looking at it. He wonders if his boss has a voicemail, too. A message with Ramsey’s sing song voice hardened at the edges and tattle telling on him. God, he isn't looking forward to job hunting again.

“Alright, come on, asshole,” Michael pep talks himself. He fits his headpiece back on and closes his eyes, savoring only a moment’s pause before punching in the button path to get to the next part of this lost cause of a day.

_Michael! God, did you leave? I probably shouldn’t call you, but I feel like a jackass. You guys finally get me on the phone for real and, well, that shit happens. I’m sorry I laughed at you. Very rude, very inappropriate. Well- I dunno. More appropriate than jerking it, I guess- I- look, I’m gonna run out of time, right? Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m a huge idiot. Call me back, I’ll give you a sale. And… I mean. You weren't on the **wrong** track… I’d love to flirt with you some more. God, I hope this is the right extension._

Beep.

What the fuck?

Michael plays it again, just to be sure. He closes his eyes and rubs his eyes and swivels his mouthpiece away from his face. Does Ramsey really expect Michael to call him? He glances at his clock, quickly calculating that it’s probably noon where the other man is - where was it? It only takes a second to bring Ramsey’s account up. Austin, Texas. God, he was probably cool. A photographer in Austin. With fantastic credit and a million dollar home and a dog and great taste in music and… and who wanted to flirt with _Michael_.

No way. No fucking way? Michael’s on his feet again, scanning the entire office with a close eye. He doesn't see anyone right away, and shouts a quick ‘hey!’ into the dimly lit hellhole with no response. Okay, so… maybe this is a possibility. He sinks back into his seat and again tucks up into the desk, feet folded between the wheels of his chair.

An intense ‘fuck it’ attitude takes Michael over. The roller coaster of a day might as well end with a high point - he’d make a sale, at the very least. And if this voicemail is genuine then he isn't getting fired and honestly, Michael’s almost disappointed. He’ll never get a chance to fuck this up so royally again. Seize the goddamn day.

Ramsey answers before the song even starts this time.

“Hey! Wow, I really didn’t think you’d call back. Wait, this is Michael, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Ramsey, I-”

“Can we cut the sales talk shit, kid?” Michael goes quiet. “I’m sorry I laughed at you. If I could go back in time, I would… I would take you seriously. When you thought I was jerking it.”

“Wow, okay, I’m hanging up.” Michael really thinks he might for a moment, but the laugh he hears on the other side of the phone is endearing this time. This respite from asshole after dry asshole is so refreshing. An oasis in a desert of assholes. He leans into his palm, unaware of the fond smile he’s giving his monitor. 

“Wait! Don’t hang up. I really do need, uh… what are you selling? Paper shredders?”

“Shredding services.”

“You gonna fly out to shred my sensitive documents for me, Michael?”

Michael hums a laugh. He can see himself stepping off of a plane into the thick humidity of Texas. Maybe he’s carrying a shred box, maybe Ramsey meets him there.

“Yeah, Ramsey, I’ll catch the next flight out.”

“Good, we’ll get drinks. You’re old enough to drink, right?”

“Wow. Yes. Yes, very much so.” They’re both laughing now, Michael utterly relaxed and reminded of the alcohol pulsing through him. He’d never believed in liquid courage before. “If you need shredding so badly, why didn't you talk to anyone else?”

“Well, Michael,” Ramsey starts, sounding like he’s just as settled in as Michael has made himself. “No one else has made shredding sound so good.”

“I haven’t even told you about it, yet.”

“Get to talking, then.”

Michael doesn't care if he’s having his leg pulled. The sale is the last thing on his mind. “I’ll be honest with you, Ramsey,” he laughs. “You get a box and once a month someone from our company comes and shreds your shit.”

“But not you.”

“Not me.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“Welcome to the real world, Ramsey.” 

The laugh Geoff offers is so earnest, so loud and unkempt, that Michael is caught off guard. His giggles rev up to keep pace with the man and before long they’re back to laughing together.

“You’re a special kind of asshole, aren't you, Michael Jones?”

“Aw, you’re making me blush.” Michael kicks back as their conversation starts to lull. Ramsey is laughing low, in his throat, and Michael can hear him figuring out what to say next. As long as they don’t have to hang up, he’ll stay put. He’d listen to the lyrical laugh and know Ramsey isn't aware of how close he is to booking a flight.

“So are you surrounded by a bunch of other pencil pushing New Jersians, Michael?” The way Geoff keeps saying Michael’s name is bordering on too familiar. An inflection used by old friends of new lovers. 

“Usually. Not today, office is empty. It’s Easter, Ramsey.” Michael can’t quite replicate the tone, yet. He can’t even bring himself to use the man’s first name.

“Ah, family people, huh?” There’s a history behind the question that Michael won’t push. “So uhm… Hey. What do you look like, kid? Let’s see if you match my image.”

“Jesus,” Michael breathes, laughing as he flounders a little again. He glances around at the pictures on his walls, landing on one of he and his father. He’s never considered that he looks like his dad before, but now as he calculates which details he’s willing to share he realizes the similarities. It’s nerve wracking. “I, uh, well. I’m kinda tall? White. I have a bunch of stupid freckles-”

“I love freckles.”

“Oh. Well. Well, I have a ton of them.” Michael tries to get back on track, distracted by his new found appreciation for the speckles that tattoo up and down his arms. “Eh, brown hair. Brown eyes. Pretty average.”

“How boring.” Geoff utters and Michael flares with rage.

“Well, sorry I don’t fit into your hip Austin expectations, asshole.”

“No! No, jeez, I’m gonna need three feet for my mouth today.” Geoff is backpedaling so hard. “I meant like… give me more. I’m not asking for your A/S/L, dude.”

“I mean… like what?”

“Like! Do you have resting bitch face? Tattoos? Do you… have a cowlick, or long eyelashes or… big hands, maybe? What does your mouth look like?”

The heat that punctures Michael is altogether a new animal. No more creeping up the back of his neck. This warmth skewers his middle. It blossoms like a night vine, slowly and then all of a sudden, and he sucks in his breath because he doesn't notice holding it. His entire thought process becomes dedicated to dousing the flame licking his insides, something akin to tunnel vision tugging at his mind. He’s so fucked.

“My uh… my mouth.” Suddenly his stupid mouth is dry. He closes his eyes and then he screws up his face, his hand shooting out to unpin photos as rapidly as possible. Ramsey is quiet - patient - as Michael hmms to cover up his movements. Before long any picture that could stare into him is face down on the desk. “I have pink lips. A small mouth, like… until I open it. I don’t think it’s possible not to be a loud mouth in Jersey. But I have pink lips… A uh, what’s the thing called? The bow… thing.”

“Cupid’s bow. _Adorable_. What about your hands?”

“I have big hands.” Michael’s cheeks must be as pink as his lips. He realizes that he has no idea what Geoff looks like, either, and can’t even begin to conjure an image to match his voice. “I have, like... long fingers. With uh, with freckles-”

“Ahhh, the freckles.” Geoff sighs dreamily, giggling. Michael smiles along though silent, and then they’re both quiet for too long. “Hey, if I’m making you uncomfortable, let me know.”

“No!” Michael straightens his back, instinctively reaching to turn the volume of his headset up. As if hearing Geoff’s quiet breath amplified in his ear will keep him on the line. “You aren’t. I, uh… I’m having a nice time. I mean, I’m alone for the night, honestly and… I've kind of had a shit week. A shit month, really. I needed something different.”

“Well, you made the right call.” Michael grins, nodding even if Geoff doesn't know it.

“Are you something different? Some kind of hipster dude with a mustache and a shitton of tattoos? Very Austin.”

“Fuck you! Having a mustache doesn’t make you a hipster. I've never been more offended.”

Michael isn't sure he’s ever had a call that’s made him laugh so much. He covers his mouth to muffle the snickering, kicking his feet as he leans to the side as if he can avoid the giggles physically. Geoff keeps up his huffing and puffing, putting on a good show until Michael isn't even sure why he’s laughing anymore. But god, he is.

In a moment of genius, Michael opens Firefox. A reluctance has taken over the conversation after the fit of laughter and he seizes the silence to type Geoff’s name, along with ‘Austin, Texas’, into Google. Plenty of results pop up, the first being the man’s photography company. No Chaser Photography. What a dweeb.

Michael clicks over to images, and sucks in an audible gasp. It’s immediately clear which images are of the man himself, and which are the ones he’s taken.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Yeah! I’m good. I’m fine.” Michael rushes. Everything is warm. It’s like the office is a sauna, sweat behind Michael’s ears and steam filling up the cavity of his chest. He’d searched in hopes of finding out what Ramsey looked like, but the photos - the art - he’s found tells him who he is. They’re portraits. Maybe. Women with open mouths and piercing stares, metal dangling from their lips and noses. Men in natural lighting, fingers wrapped loosely around tree branches, naked as the day they were born - save the tattoos creeping up their waists and backs and arms. The poses aren't sexual - they’re not even poses, really. Michael can tell who they are, what kind of daydreams they have, what haunts them from their pasts, just from these fractions of moments.

The pictures of Geoff are just pictures. Quick snaps probably for web articles or website biographies. But Michael soaks in the details.

“You ready to hang up, kiddo, or you need a credit card or something?”

“No, just hang on.”

Geoff’s voice in Michael’s ear is suddenly perfect. Now that he can see the mouth it’s coming from. The pouting, supple lower lip and the side smirk that lifts well rounded cheekbones. The crow’s feet revealing the man’s age, but in no way obscuring the pale, blue irises of his eyes. God, they’re like the crest of waves off the shores of Cozumel - or, they probably are, Michael’s never been to Cozumel.

He pictures himself in Geoff’s portfolio. God, it’s ridiculous, because he’s not hip like these portraits. But maybe Geoff could make him look as beautiful as the subjects. He could reach through Michael and take his apathy and wring it out, leaving behind the passion he used to know. And everyone would see it, painted on his face and his body. Geoff would bring it out of him. Maybe he’d use his hands… those tattooed knuckles nudging Michael’s limbs carefully into place. 

“Michael?”

“You really do have tattoos... Christ.” 

“Did you Google me?” Geoff is incredulous, laughing high and clear as Michael swerves past shame and lands on pride.

“Hell yeah, I did. Shit, Geoff, these are… your work. It’s really beautiful.” As Geoff gives a sing-song sigh of satisfaction, Michael closes his eyes to picture it. The man’s lips upturned under the unruly stubble and the styled mustache. His eyes warm and sunny. And maybe Geoff is imagining what Michael looks like, since he can’t cheat. 

“Thank you. Not exactly, uh… work appropriate, there, buddy.” Geoff hedges on uncomfortable, but Michael’s still scrolling through pages of bodies and skin, ignoring whatever rules he’s supposed to be following. “I feel all exposed and open, dude, talk to me.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just… I dunno, it’s great. I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“I was thinking about you shooting me.” Michael’s boldness is rewarded with Geoff’s tangle of sputtering. It’s honestly a goddamn relief to know the man is capable of flubbing his words, and Michael flat out giggles because Geoff is reaching Porky Pig levels of garbled noise. “Y’know, when I fly down to shred your documents.”

“Right! Sure. Christ, kid. I don’t… I don’t even have a picture of you, but… I’d love to. Earnestly, Michael, come to Austin. I’d love to take your picture.” Michael _knows_ they’ve just met. He fully realizes that they live half a country away; that they honestly know nothing about each other. He isn’t an entirely irrational person. But he is a bored person. His life is stagnant. He needs this validation and he’s been still in the water long enough to finally kick his feet.

“Just like your other models?”

“Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Geoff. It’s what I want.” If Geoff misses the way Michael’s voice dips into his throat he’s a moron. If the hints aren't obnoxiously clear to the other man, then this time has been wasted and Michael ought to just hang up. No… No, Michael feels guilty for that thought. This has been the best conversation he’s had in months. The guilt is only momentary, though, because Michael has other things in mind. “How would it work?”

“Well, I take models for coffee, usually.”

“Skip it. I've had my coffee for the day.”

“Eager, huh?” Geoff questions, probably with an eyebrow perk. “Did you expect me to say I take my models home? Strip them down… get them hard and tell them they’re not allowed to cum until I get my shot?”

Fuck. Christ. Shit, god damn, say something, Michael. His hesitation feels like a lifetime but in reality he’s quick on his feet, grinning catlike into the headset. His screen has been rested on a photo of Geoff and as cheesy and posed as it is, Michael’s still able to picture the man’s stern face as he strips him of his clothes.

“You really think you can tell me what to do?”

Geoff’s hum is of an entertained man, someone practiced in the art of phone flirting and surprised at Michael’s quickly growing skill. Michael hears him get to his feet, the movement’s sound distinct in his ear.

“Michael, I think you want me to tell you what to do.” Geoff presses, going still again as he settles into what sounds like a damn mattress. “If I told you to get hard for me right now, you would.”

Michael closes his eyes. He doesn’t bother checking the office again. It’s empty. This is happening. If it isn't empty, then fuck, whoever sneaked in better be ready to hear Michael cum in his pants because Geoff isn't wrong. He presses the heel of his hand against the hard-on just starting to get too tight for his jeans, only opening his eyes because he can focus on Geoff’s tattooed knuckles in his picture.

“Maybe. Guess you’ll never know?”

“Ohhh, Michael.” Geoff teases, voice throaty enough that Michael’s dick twitches in its trap. “How hard are you right now?”

“On a scale of what?” Michael laughs, giving in as he leans back in his chair and unbuttons his suddenly way-too-constricting jeans. He lets a long breath zip out of him as his cock hits the cold air of the office, but doesn't take a glance down for fear of looking away from the picture on his screen. “You gonna give me more orders or am I on my own?”

“You gonna take ‘em, buddy?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Ramsey.” Michael puts his sales voice back on and the warning in Geoff’s chuckle is his prize. He grins, spreading his knees and getting comfortable. True to his word, he doesn't even touch his dick, waiting for permission.

“Now, Michael, this may sound counter intuitive, but this is what I want you to do.” Michael’s patient, even if his cock is straining as he listens to the voice muttering in his ear. “I want you to tell me what you would let me do to you.”

“I can do that.” Michael ventures a careful hand over his cock, pressing a thumb over the top of his length until he’s at the head, rubbing slow circles. “I’ve been thinking of you… taking my clothes off-”

“Scandalous,” Geoff interrupts, and Michael can hear the creaking of the man’s bed as he adjusts. He hopes Geoff is hard, that Geoff can’t help but touch himself either. Maybe Michael’s voice is just as intoxicating to him. The thought swells in the boy’s chest, leaving him grinning and confident as he steadies slow strokes up from base to tip of his dick.

“In my head… you can’t help but touch me. My hips. You think you’re being funny or sneaky but… I know what you’re doing. Your fingers touch my ass as you pull my pants down. And you just happen to feel my cock when you take my boxers off.” 

“And you want that, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I want it. I try to be professional… I’m a model, right? But fuck, you notice how hard you’re making me.” The friction between Michael’s dick and his dry hand starts to hurt as he realizes how quickly he’s starting to pump, and he hisses enough to reveal the discomfort to Geoff. The man hums low with his realization, pleased and proud, and Michael takes a moment to slick his hand with his tongue. Too bad he doesn't keep lube in the office.

“A little to hard on your dick, there, buddy?” Geoff questions between slow, carefully paced breaths.

“You gonna tell me how to jerk off?”

“No, but I’m gonna tell you how to have phone sex.” Michael goes quiet, nibbling on his lower lip before he wets his hand again, already too dry for comfort. He doesn't care that he needs tips - he welcomes Geoff’s lesson, slowing his strokes to give himself time to savor it. “Michael, I wanna do more than work with you. Before I take pictures of those freckles, I want to count the ones on your stomach with my lips. I’m gonna leave bruises on your thighs… marks you can’t hide in the photos. You’re right, though, you aren't sneaky about your cock. But I’m impatient, and I wanna make you forget how to talk as I swallow your dick into my throat.”

Holy shit. Michael is shaking, stunned by Geoff’s filthy mouth. And he can hear the wet sounds of Geoff beating down on his own cock, merciless in every way. Michael isn't far behind, consistently wetting his mouth and licking his palm as he runs out of saliva. If he had any less control he’d have his head thrown back, but he wants to see Geoff’s hands on him. Wants to perfectly visualize wet, pink lips at the base of him as the man slides up and down his length. If he looks away from the screen he may forget how much he needs this, how desperate for release he’s gotten and how Geoff is providing a perfect opportunity for him.

“Can you make noise, Michael?” Geoff has his own desperation lacing his voice. Michael cocks an eyebrow, and lets himself groan. The noise sparks another and Geoff’s quick breathing comes roaring back into his ear, like he’d been holding his breath.

“What else are you gonna do to me, Geoff?” Michael doesn't even have to manufacture the whine in his voice. He needs more of Geoff’s voice.

“Ohh, god, Michael, I’m gonna make you want to cum. I’m gonna suck your cock until you’re so close I can almost taste it. Then I’m gonna stop.”

“Don’t.”

“I know, baby, you won’t want me to.” Fuck. Michael breathes high, like a bell ringing. He prays to God that Geoff keeps calling him _baby_. “But I’m gonna flip you over and bite down on your ass. More marks, so everyone who sees your pictures knows what a slut you are.” Michael thanks his God because that’s even better. He doesn't need spit, now, precum slicking the underside of his cock. He’s pushing the heels of his feet up as he fucks up into his fist, twisting fingers so the friction’s everywhere. “And I’m gonna spread your ass open, sink my tongue into your asshole and make you beg to be fucked. Make you wet and sloppy and desperate.”

Michael laughs a little because he’s nothing but desperate. Every inch of him needs Geoff’s mouth. He needs out of this fucking town, away from this job, away from his shattered relationship. He needs Geoff. And somehow the man knows it.

“Are you gonna fuck me? Please, Geoff?” 

Geoff is breathing so heavy and hot, and Michael groans as he wishes he could feel the heat of it on his neck. In his mouth. He imagines kissing that plump lower lip, sucking deeply on Geoff’s mouth and tongue, soaking him in. The thought of the kiss is more erotic than anything the man’s said, striking lighting through Michael’s limbs as he moans open mouthed into the air.

“I will, baby, yeah, I’ll fuck you. If you want it.” Geoff waits for Michael to beg, but he’s too caught up in whining, in needing. “I want it.”

“Please!” Michael erupts. He knows he’s so close and his hand slows to squeeze every ounce of this moment out. His other hand has found his balls, rolling them at a matching speed, and it’s almost too much so he has to plead Geoff for more. “Please fuck me. Fuck me hard, make me cry. Take my hair and pull my head back and fuck into me and cum all over me. In me, I don’t care. Just fuck me, Geoff, please, please, please.”

“Holy shit,” Geoff gasps, choking a little on the weight of his own shock. He’s faltering again, looking for words that will force their way past the wetness of his mouth. “Mi- Michael, fuck. I’ll fuck you. I will, baby, I’ll fuck you and I’ll cum inside of you. Whatever you want, kid, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Say my name.” Michael can’t be slow anymore. He pleads Geoff, picking up speed on his dick and rocking his hips up to meet each stroke.

“Michael.” Geoff’s close too. Michael knows. And he realizes this is how Geoff knows what he wants. The innate fact slipping into his head as the rest of his thoughts are blindingly white, blank, lost. “Michael, Michael, Michael, oh, fuck, Michael!” His name as a mantra peaks and Geoff is cumming. His whines are long and drawn out, insistent in Michael’s ear as they fade into shudders. Michael isn't done yet, and just a fraction of embarrassment becomes a seedling in his stomach. “I bet you’re beautiful.” 

What? Michael tries to just keep pumping, to fuck himself into ignoring that.

“God, I bet you’re so fucking hot. I bet you’d lick this cum off my dick. I bet you’re perfect and you’re three thousand miles away. I want to fuck you. I want to suck your dick.”

“Do you wanna kiss me?” Michael whispers it, eyes squeezed shut as he finds fear grow, taking place of the shame. “Would you?”

“Is that a joke? Michael, yes. I would. Every day.”

Michael’s been expecting an explosion, but when he cums it’s like he has to force it out of his body. He grits his teeth and wet, hot tears fall over rounded cheeks. His shaking hand is sticky with cum, but there’s no messy stains on his jeans, no streaks up his shirt. He whimpers, shoving his clean hand over his eyes to stop the onslaught of emotion. Not now. Not _now_.

He never needed another someday.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You had a rough month, remember?” Michael laughs, genuine and fond behind his tears. They won’t stop, even though he isn't sure if he’s ever been happier in his life. He catches his breath, and listens to Geoff do the same. There’s no regret between them, even as Michael swallows whines. “So… you need my card number?”

“Fuck you!” Michael giggles, using his heels to pull himself forward and drag a few tissues from the box on his desk. He cleans himself up, tucking back into his boxers and wiping down his hands as well. “I think we’re well past the sales part of this call.”

“Yeahhh, maybe… So, uh, you jerk it here often?”

“God, you’re an idiot.” Michael doesn't like that he’s been reminded of work. He clicks out of Firefox, out of the sales screen, out of his call log. A dread bubbles deep in the back of his still-raw mind, tender from his mini breakdown. He has tomorrow off, some time with his family, some Easter egg hunting, some honey ham. Then he’s back at this desk. The next day, too. The next day. He presses his monitor off and rolls back away from the cubicle, hands clasping between his knees as he waits for Geoff to suddenly need to go.

“Maybe I’ll call you next week?” The hope in Geoff’s voice settles a little of Michael’s anxiety. It’d be nice, yeah, to have someone to talk to.

“I’ll call you. I have your number.”

“Good. Any time, okay?”

“Ohhh, suddenly not busy all the time now that phone sex is possible. I see how it is.”

“Hey! Hey, I’m serious. Call me, okay? I, uh, I gotta clean this up and then I have a shoot. Or I would talk more.”

“Yeah. Yeah… I will.” Michael sighs, tilting his head as he looks down the row of cubicles he’s tried to hard to forget he’s sitting at the end of. “You gotta go?”

“I gotta go, b-... I gotta go.” Geoff huffs a sigh, too, and the mattress is creaking underneath him again. “Thank you, Michael Jones from Bear Mountain Shredding Services.”

“Any time, Mr. Ramsey.” Reluctance is painful. Michael is glad for the warm, affectionate hum Geoff gives before he hangs up because the emptiness of the dialtone buzzes through his entire body. He doesn't know if he will call Geoff again. Why should he? To get off again, maybe.

But Michael doesn't want to want anymore. He’s sure it’s killing him.

Ripping off his headset leaves a familiar burst of pain in his ear. Wearing it for hours at a time fucks up his face every day, and he hisses as he rubs at the redness. For too long he sits at his desk, stony faced and silent. This is it. His life.

He shuts down his body, leaning elbows onto his knees and letting his face fall into his hands. He can pretend the smell of his own pleasure is the smell of something shared, can pretend the exhaustion in his limbs was caused by someone new. He doesn't, though. Pretending doesn't help anymore. Michael takes a deep, slow breath, and he unfolds and reaches for the stack of photos sitting face down on his desk. He slides them into his hands and then, without looking at them, into his bag. Next he goes for the legal pad on the corner of his desk. He snags his pen from the keyboard and starts writing rapidly, trying not to put too much thought into it.

_My name is Michael Jones and this is my two week notice._


	2. Missed Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff thinks he's ready to take his fresh relationship to another level. But everyone he loves knows he's made of nothing but apologies and excuses.

Geoff has a testy model tonight.

He should have known. Geoff doesn’t hire models - or, he never used to. He shoots his friends. His family. His dog. His photoshoots mean something - they mean more than doe-eyes and extra contrast. He doesn’t shoot models, doesn’t add his name to their resume for the publicity.

But fuck if he hasn’t been in a rut, lately.

The model is pure Austinite. Honestly, Geoff can’t remember his name if he tried. He’s too distracted by the side-shaved haircut, the glasses too big for his bearded face. He’s tattooed - like a lot of Geoff’s good friends - but they’re all new school. All fades and dot work. His left arm probably costs more than Geoff’s hatchback. The kid has his flannel unbuttoned, his skinny jeans unbuttoned, his fucking fancy shoes are unbuttoned for fuck’s sake.

Geoff thinks he might walk away from the shoot and never come back. Head straight East, away from Austin and away from Texas. Fuck this pretentiousness. Fuck cool.

On the other hand, and it’s painful to admit, the model is absolutely the kind of guy Geoff would have taken for a drink after a shoot six months ago. He would have charmed the guy’s skinny pants right off of him, and kicked him out in the morning. It’s hard to process that it’s been six months since he’s gotten laid, six months since he made the conscious decision to make his life harder.

But here he is. Six months in.

Maybe that’s why the model’s so fuckin’ useless. Maybe he can sense that Geoff has cum into his hand too many times to count, can feel the sexual frustration radiating off of him. Maybe he senses Geoff’s weakness and he’s taking advantage of the old man. And that sucks, because Geoff needs a goddamn break.

He’s lucky, he guesses, sometimes, to have friends near him pretty much all the time. It helps. When he starts to drown, to wallow in drink or loneliness, Griffon is there to knock some sense into him. She’s there today, too, when he’s about ready to walk away from a shoot he’s been planning for a month. She’s there a lot.

“Can you-... look,” Geoff sighs wholeheartedly, lowering his camera and letting it hang on his belly. He pinches the bridge of his nose, glancing at Griffon for guidance. She just lifts her eyebrows and goes back to adjusting her reflector. “You know how actors find their light? I need you to, y’know, find the fan. Just. Stand by the fan. It isn’t hard.”

Okay, yeah, it’s a little hokey. It’s fall - October to be precise - and Geoff hasn’t had much he could call inspiration in a while. So he’s going for simple. Low light, floaty, leaves and sand. It’s not a shoot that means much to him, so as this asshole wastes their natural light, he gets a little testy himself.

“Geoff, I just think- and I don’t mean any offense- I just think this whole….” The model is talking. He’s talking. “Leaves flying around thing is _so_ overdone. It’s just not you.” Ohhhhh, god. Geoff looks to Griffon, who is now smiling at the ground and avoiding the situation altogether. He lets the prick’s words sink in for a moment, and he tries. He tries so hard to take into account that this whole afternoon and evening would be wasted if he blows up. He has learned the art of patience by now, right? That’s what this past six months has been all about.

“It’s not me.” Geoff repeats in an attempt to diffuse his own bomb.

“It isn’t! The whole themed photoshoot thing? It’s so basic.” Pete. The guy’s name is Pete. Geoff remembers, now. His whole body teems with rage, patience long forgotten.

“You, uh, you know what is me?” His name is heard escaping from Griffon’s lips somewhere in the background of the thrum of his anger. A warning - he ignores it. “What’s me is hiring models who know what the fuck they’re doing. What’s me is getting at least one good goddamn shot in before the sun sets. What’s really me? How about not having to fucking ask fifty fucking times for a model not to eyefuck the fucking camera? And you know what else is really fucking me? Firing you.”

By the time Geoff is done he’s paced to within grabbing distance of _Pete_. Punching distance. _Pete_ is still perfectly gelled and waxed, but he is boiling beneath his self-administered beauty.

“Yeah,” he spits. “I heard you only do this to find boy toys, anyway.” The words hold no sting. No, they go straight to ripping Geoff’s open wound apart. He hears his name again, this time loud and clear, before he lunges at the stupid fucking asshole.

The scuffle is lightning fast, the two of them scrambling on the side of the road. Geoff gets a few good shoves in, probably bruises the kid’s jaw, and one really solid punch that snaps the plastic frames of the guy’s glasses in half. That feels good. But once Griff’s hands are on his shoulders, her voice calling him an idiot, he separates and gets to his feet, stalking in the opposite direction.

“You’re washed up, you old bitch!” The model is smarter than Geoff gives him credit for, because when the much larger man turns back around to jump him again, the kid’s getting in his car. Had there been a chance for a second boxing match, Geoff would have had him by the throat. But it’s over. So, while Griffon seethes in the background, Geoff screams expletives into the dust trail left behind motherfucking _Pete_.

“Geoff.” He kicks at the grass and he lifts clouds of dirt onto his shoes. It’s a hissy fit, but he doesn’t care. It’s well-deserved. “Geoff!” Griffon’s bark brings him back to the ground.

“What!” When he sees her, she’s like a fucking angel. Backlit by the sunset, looking positively pissed, with a flask in hand. He reverses gears, the pitch of his stomach settling as what’s important really grips him. Fuck that guy. This is what counts.

They sit in the dirt and drink for a while, watching fools in cars creep down the traffic trap of I-35. Geoff leans to the side to take a few snaps of Griffon’s mean mug, of the dirt stuck in the sweat on her brow, of the greenish tint to her obnoxiously blonde hair under the streetlights, of the downturn her lips have taken on. Otherwise they’re silent, individually evaluating the events of the shoot. Coming to their own conclusions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, lately?” Griffon finally asks, and Geoff realizes he’s been waiting for the question for months, now. Surely Griffon will take offense when he’s still silent and still clutching the ten dollar plastic flask. She’s probably assumed the answer to her question - probably picked out all the worst reasons. All the shallow all-the-time reasons. He’s ornery for ornery’s sake, he’s run himself ragged with late nights and strong drinks, he needs to get laid.

For fuck’s sake, they’re all true. All the time.

“I met someone.” Geoff guesses he better just tell her something she doesn’t already know.

“Yeah? And that turns you into an asshole?” Griffon yanks the flask away, taking a deep swig and eyeing him suspiciously. She knows him so well - knows there’s an entire 7-layer-cake of details to whatever he’s about to tell her.

“Not that, particularly.” Geoff muses, rubbing hands over his hair. He’s frustrated. Embarrassed, a little. “Seventeen hundred miles of distance, though? Kinda winds me up.” The fatal silence of understanding that settles between them creeps vertebrae by vertebrae up Geoff’s spine, until it gets to the base of his neck and he tries to shake it away. “You can say something or you can pass me that bourbon. Or both. No one’s stopping you.”

“I’m just processing! Give me a minute, jeez.” Griffon does pass him the alcohol, though, and Geoff takes a healthy swig. After another painfully tense stillness, Geoff is startled by her head laying on his shoulder. He peers down at her, brow furrowed and lips thin. Moonlight is bouncing off of her hair - any pale skin between colorful tattoos is painted blue and grey. “How long?”

“About twenty four hours if you drive.” Geoff replies immediately, and his thoughts have started to slow. He wraps an arm around Griffon’s shoulders, hugging her tight against his side.

“No, asshole, how long have you been… what? Are you seeing them? Just talking?” Griffon wiggles against her binds and then settles again, laughing at Geoff’s mistake.

“Oh. Oh, uhh… we’re dating.” Geoff smirks, tucking his feet under opposite thighs and squinting out into the freeway. The cars sound like the ocean. Like the Atlantic ocean, not the muddled Gulf. “We’re very dating. He’s my boyfriend. We’re boyfriends. Super dating.”

“Okay, you sound gross.” Griffon prods. She unfurls from his side, spreading her legs out in the grass and leaning onto her palms. Geoff hopes she hears the waves, too. Hopes it isn’t just him. “So you’re _super_ dating, and apparently when Geoff Ramsey commits, he turns into a boring, aggressive asshole.”

“Wow!” Geoff might be legitimately hurt. He stares at Griffon until she laughs like it had been a joke, but he knows she was serious. And there’s nothing in the world he’d never wanted to be more than boring. “You didn’t say boring before. Words hurt, Griff.”

Griffon ignores him thoroughly. “So how did you meet this guy?”

“Long story.” Geoff avoids, finishing off the last gulp of bourbon. His head swims with the final shot and he stretches out next to his friend, letting the spin of the Earth shift him onto his back. The sky above him is blacker than the horizon, the stars hidden by purple pollution. Bummer. “But I guess I’m just distracted. Work doesn’t seem so important, now. Who gives a shit about pretty pictures when you’re lonely, y’know?”

Griffon is on the ground beside him after a moment of quiet, her head resting on her hands, her face shadowed and darkened as she thinks. Geoff thinks she looks beautiful, and if the harsh streetlights weren’t the only thing illuminating them, he’d take her picture. She’s chewing her lip, her whole face screwed up as she rolls around words in her head, waiting for them to fit together in the right way. She’s so much better at that than Geoff - at thinking. Finally, she turns her head to him, and he reels backwards at their closeness.

“So what’s the problem? Why aren’t you there?”

“Griffon. It’s New Jersey.”

“Jesus.” She closes her eyes. Thinking. “So why doesn’t he come here? If he makes you happy, be with him.”

“I-... Griffon!” Geoff sits up, forehead pressed against the palms of his hands. “What’s with the twenty questions? It’s complicated, alright?” He shoves his way up to his feet, tossing the flask into her hands and getting to work. They have to pack up in the dark, now, and his mood has nosedived. He needs another drink. “Come on, come help me.”

She does. Griffon always helps, even when she pushes him. Even when she gets him drunk on the side of the road and asks him uncomfortable questions, she always helps. He watches her pack up the reflectors in her car, the tripods in his. When she turns to tell him she’s done, he snaps a photo of her, because he doesn’t want to forget the last time he sees her.

“Stop.” Griffon laughs, waving a hand over her face and breaching the gap between them. She wraps her arms around his neck, hanging on him and kissing his scruffy cheek. “Text me when you’re home, alright? Be safe.” Her skin is cold. Maybe Geoff’s is just too warm. He wants to give her his heat. He wants to tell her that she’s changed his life, and that when she pushes him he listens. That he’s going to go make himself happy. Fucking finally. 

He resolves to give her a sloppy kiss on the forehead, lingering there with their bodies tightly pressed against each other. Geoff’s mind racing against the sluggish alcohol, his blood to the quick of his skin and warming the both of them against the chill of a Texas fall. She stirs first. Geoff would be content to stay against her radiant warmth all night, but they have to go. He has to go.

“Go home, babe.” She murmurs. He nods, and they lock eyes, all of Geoff’s goodbyes pouring out of the last glance. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Geoff’s drive home is fueled by the echo of a warm whiskey belly and the need to tell his boyfriend he loves him. He _loves_ him. No questions, no reserves. Just gut wrenching, heart thumping love. And a need. A need to be together, and to hold him. To fucking kiss him. Finally.

He tries not to speed, but his foot is as heavy as his head and the barometer climbs up and over 80, 90, 100 on the newly deserted I-35 until he’s barreling into his exit and barely pausing at neighborhood stop signs. The text he sends as he skids into his driveway is one word: “Skype.” His phone buzzes in his hand as he gathers his things, his head, his words, his body.

And he makes a mistake.

He assumes.

His equipment is heavy as he heaves it onto his shoulder, pocketing his phone and adjusting his keys. The only light in his house filters from the back porch, illuminating his kitchen with a dull blue, interrupted by splotches of excited shadows as his dop leaps to meet him.

“Hey, buddy.” Geoff coos, still warm, still alive. “You ready?” Jupiter spins, nuzzling Geoff’s welcoming hand with a wet nose. “Everything’s gonna be different, now, buddy.” He doesn’t bother with unpacking or changing or freshening up. He pours himself a refresh of whiskey and sits down in front of his laptop at the kitchen table. Nerves he’s been exiling start to riot their way up the back of his neck, creeping and chilling the warmth he’s been stoking.

As the light of his screen fills the kitchen, Geoff vanquishes the anxiety. He fills his chest up with the love again, and starts up Skype, and calls his boyfriend with every ounce of courage he’s gathered.

Michael answers after too long. And as the video buffers, Geoff can hear voices - plural. The other voice is familiar and grating and he steels his jaw as the video finally appears. Michael’s room is as it always is. A yellow glow from bad lighting, messy and lived in, posters unevenly hung. And Michael. Sturdy and confident and unbroken. Youth.

And distracted.

Geoff watches Michael talk with his friend for the first few minutes of the call. The what ifs start to meet the anxiety that’s flooded back, and it’s real work to banish them again. The whiskey helps. He takes big gulps to quell the noise in his head, and finally, Michael’s attention is drawn to the screen.

“Hi Geoff!” His voice is scratchy. Enthusiastic. “Say hi to Ray!”

“Hi baby. Hi Ray.” Geoff watches Ray wave - but Ray knows how Geoff feels about him. Michael’s ex boyfriend, a heart breaker and a deserter. Fickle. A good friend, but a terrible lover, and someone who has Michael’s heart in one hand and his dick in the other.

“You drinking still?” Michael is trying to be friendly, but there’s annoyance laced in his voice. Geoff assumes - again - that it’s because of the drink in his hand. “It’s late.”

“It’s nothin’.” All of Geoff’s prepared words have fallen wayside. He clenches his jaw as a rhythmic comfort, watching the pair of boys getting comfortable in front of the screen. It doesn’t occur to him how long they’ve been quiet until Michael speaks again. 

“Did you get my text? I’m surprised you called.” Geoff remembers having his guts ripped from him by the model in plaid only hours earlier. He feels the wound drip, pressure building beneath it, his warmth leak away onto the tile beneath him. “We’re kinda in the middle of stuff.”

Michael’s features instill the good in Geoff. When he watches the boy’s eyebrows twist together, or his long fingers tap on his strong knees, or his eyes search for answers, he feels like he’s never been a bad man. He’s never kicked innocent people from his bed, never drank himself into coma, never bare knuckle boxed smaller men in dirty alleyways. He’s never cheated or lied or stolen. Michael is his fresh start, his new path. His future. If he doesn’t try now, he’ll be the bad guy forever.

“I just really needed to talk to you, buddy.” Geoff’s voice creaks out of his throat, more desperate and dry than he had expected. “Alone, maybe?”

“Uhh, yeah. Sure, let me, you know, actually call you.” Michael twists around in his chair, finding his phone. “Ray, do you still have it?” Geoff chills, finally. All the warmth exiting, flying out into the ether for someone else to enjoy. Michael’s phone is handed off from Ray’s thin, graceful hands. What it was doing there would bother Geoff for the rest of the night, but in his fit of fear he ends the call and unpockets his own cellphone. The text he had ignored earlier is still on his lockscreen, and a stone sinks into the ice of his belly. _Not tonight. Need a break._

Seconds later his phone rings, and he answers and slides out of his chair so he can try to pace out the failure running through his brain.

“Hey, sorry, I know you-... Well, I mean. He wanted to hang out. And I thought you were busy tonight.” Michael launches into apologies. Excuses. Geoff brushes them off, barely hearing them. If he doesn’t keep his own plan going steady, doesn’t hold onto the words he’s kept safe, he will lose his chance. There’s no time for sorry.

“Do you love me?” This is not part of the plan. Geoff leans his free hand on the kitchen counter before quickly changing his mind and fetching his drink from the table.

“You’re drunk.” Michael accuses, and Geoff takes a solidifying slurp of his whiskey. “Geoff, you should go to bed.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Don’t fucking badger me, Geoff. Ask me this again when you haven’t been drinking.”

“So never?”

“Oh, ha fucking ha. You’re hilarious. Geoff, that’s a big goddamn question, alright?” Michael’s voice has reached the breaking point. The cracking Geoff only heard when the kid was inundated with passion or fury. Or fear. “Just go to bed.”

“Because I love _you_ , Michael. I do. I fucking love you.” Maybe Geoff’s love will heal the rift. Maybe the plan can be pieced back together, newer and stronger. “And I’m so sick of not being near you, not when I can afford to have you here in half a day. Michael, I’m fucking tired of it. I miss you. I need you. I’d move to New Jersey tomorrow for you-”

“Stop talking.” Michael interrupts curtly, exhaling his frustration. “Geoff. We’ve talked about this. A lot. I… I live with my mom. I make less than minimum wage. New Jersey sucks and you’re not moving here.”

“I can. I am. I’m ready, Michael.” Geoff has sunk into the kitchen chair, his vision blurry but locked on Michael’s smiling avatar. “I want to spend my life with you.” Michael is quiet for so long. He doesn’t move as far as Geoff can hear. There’s nothing on the other side, nothing to grasp onto. Nothing tangible. Nothing left. “Baby?”

“Geoff… can’t I just get you off and go to bed? I can’t deal with this shit right now.” Michael is laughing, now, and Geoff thinks it might be okay. He thinks he can survive the nothing if Michael is laughing. “Please. Please let me call you tomorrow, when you’re sober and not crying and Ray isn’t here and I can think. I feel like shit. I just want to go play Call of Duty for a few hours and not theorize exactly what the fuck my mom is going to say about my forty year old boyfriend. Okay?”

Michael makes sense. He always makes so much sense. He’s always the solid rock of surety in Geoff’s sea of doubt. Drink starting to shake in his hand, Geoff sets it down and leans into the wet hand. The coolness of his palm is striking against his forehead and he sighs deeply, relief and fatigue washing over him. Dizzying him.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Give me, uh… give me until like one tomorrow, yeah? Call me then. Eh, maybe two.” Michael’s warm, throaty hum of a laugh is a tone memorized by Geoff a thousand times over. He smiles into the noise, and slumps onto the table, defeated and lovesick and so very tired. “Were you… were you gonna get me off or what?”

“You’re such an asshole!” Michael is laughing openly, now, and Geoff can heard his feet crunch against the cool pavement of his sidewalk. “I’ll do that tomorrow, too, okay? Goodnight. Go to bed. Good _night_.”

“Goodnight, babe.”

\-- 

Geoff wakes up on the couch, sore and groaning. His face is puffy and red and warm and lined by deep welts from the cushion. As soon as he’s gotten moderately upright, Jupiter is whining in his lap, sniffing into his neck and begging for company.

“Me too, buddy, me too.” The microwave says it’s way past two, and Geoff rewards his failure by popping the lid off of a cold beer for breakfast. It takes half the bottle for him to find the courage to check his phone. Two missed calls and four texts. The damage doesn’t seem so bad from the outside - one of the texts is from Griffon, even. 

He responds to her check-in, typing out a garbled “early morning” text with one thumb.

_gmorning. hungover. fine tho. drinks later?_

The light is reflecting off of everything. The counters, the sink, his phone, his skin. Everything is bright and stark, a stern juxtaposition to Geoff’s dark fear. He finishes his beer and pops another one open, swiftly making his way out onto the patio. At least out there the sunlight would burn his skin, would punish him.

Michael’s texts are quick and to the point, like usual. The first is a good morning. The second is a reminder to call him. The third is not so nice. Geoff sighs softly as he reads it again and again, thankful to god that there’s no voicemail to go alongside it. It’s three words. A phrase they’ve used in every way possible, for as long as they’d known each other. A phrase that had never meant more than in that moment.

_You’re an asshole._

And he’s right.

Geoff leans into his lawnchair; his beer is cold and his is face hot. This is all fucked up. This calm before the storm is different from last night’s, so maybe it’s the eye. And Geoff will enjoy this eye for as long as he possibly can.

Five beers go by before the sun goes down on the wasted day. Mosquitos that have lingered into the fall nip at Geoff’s ankles. Humidity sucks the life from his skin, street sounds lull him into the memory of last night, and Michael finally crosses his mind in earnest. He lifts his phone through the haze and taps out his apologies.

_sorry for fucking up again baby I just needed time. call me??_

_please_

_I just want to talk_

_I love you please do not let this be it_

It takes twenty minutes of sitting in the nighttime, lit only by cellphone, and of begging for Michael to call. As soon as Geoff answers, he’s berated by vicious, stinging anger.

“What? What, Geoff? What can I fucking do for you this time? Can I hold your fucking hand while you sober up? Can I lie to you and tell you I love you when I’ve never even really seen your face? You want me to pose over Skype while you fulfill your fucking photographer fantasy for a while? Yeah? What emergency is it this time?” Michael’s voice is raw, dragging its way through a worn throat. He’s been crying. Geoff’s heard that voice before - never like this, but it’s familiar nonetheless. It’s the voice Michael acquires after one too many auditions, one too many rejections. It’s his lonely, scared voice reserved for when he feels like the only loser in the whole world.

Geoff thinks he knows what he’s going to say, but he chokes. He takes the last swig of beer number six and he lets Michael take a breath. And continue.

“You’re such a piece of shit, you know that? I don’t know.. what your end goal here was? Jerk me around until I can’t stand it? Because bingo, buddy, you fucking did it. Like, what did you think last night was going to do? Did you think that was romantic? I’ve had drunk guys tell me they love me before, Geoff, you’re not the fucking first. I can see right fucking through you! I can see through you, you fucking asshole, and you don’t love me. I don’t know if you love anyone. I don’t know if you _can_ love anyone. You use love like a fucking weapon. Like a trap. A last resort.”

As Michael winds down he seems to be making revelations. Geoff can hear him churning inside and out, his breath stalling and his brain stuttering. But he’s right. The kid is always right. Geoff screws his eyebrows together, smacks a fist against his forehead. He slides deep into his chair and he nods, finally. He accepts how deep the hole is.

“I know.”

“You _know_? You know. If you know so much then how can you not see how done I am with this? Fuck you, Geoff Ramsey. I’ll see you in hell.”

It’s over. Geoff lets out the breath he’d been holding, and he stares down at his phone. There’s supposed to be pain shooting through him like lightning, supposed to be fire licking through his veins. He searches for the fear. It’s all burnt up. He feels nothing.

_come over?_

Geoff gathers himself together. He bags beer bottles from the night and from nights before. He empties ashtrays that haven’t been emptied since before parties he can’t remember. He feeds his dog, he takes off his shoes, takes off his pants, his shirt.

_On my way._

Before he really catches up to his body he’s in a scalding hot shower, simmering in the nothingness. Autopilot is on. Teeth get brushed, hair gets washed. But there’s no goddamn reason for it anymore. There’s nothing inside of him, nothing in front of him. No fear. Nothing. The hot water on his skin barely stings. He can hear his phone vibrating on the counter and he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even start. Time is endless. Next he hears knocking. And shouting. And his name.

“Geoff, jesus.” Griffon is in the restroom, pulling back the shower curtain and turning off the hot water. Her hands are ice on Geoff’s skin, and he follows the cool sensation eagerly, searching for the chill. “That was nothing but hot water, you freak, what the fuck is wrong with you?” His hands, pink and scorched, find hers as she tries to free him from the bottom of his tub. She’s there. She’s inches from him, pushing hair out of his face and chilling him. Making him feel.

“Come here, please.” His voice shreds his throat and he coughs, leaning against the tile as every degree of heat floods back into his blood. “Please, Griffon.” She’s stiff in his hands, resistant and confused until he lets go.

“What happened, babe?” Geoff peers up at Griffon, and she’s not broken. She’s so capable, so proud. She’s so fucking beautiful.

“Nothing. Please, Griff, please come here.” 

They’re quiet so long as Griffon watches him. She puzzles together his pieces, gathering him up. Her hand finds his cheek, thumb stroking just under his eye, fingertips crooked just behind his scruffy jaw. Geoff fears her judgement, but her face is soft and kind. Tender. Willing. The gap closes between them as she presses lips to the crook of his nose.

“Come all the way here.”

She laughs and even her breath is cool against his face. Just when she’s about to say something, to spoil it all, to shatter the moment, he steals her into a kiss. It’s supposed to be soft, like her. But Geoff doesn’t know how to be smooth or soft or gentle. He crushes her, kissing deeply into her mouth and relishing in her scent and her wetness and her hands clutching into his hair. He lets her climb into the tub, helps her drag her sweater off of her shoulders.

There’s no question, no wonder. Griffon can tell he’s been broken. And if he hasn’t, he’s close, and she doesn’t care. She’s there for him.

Geoff’s a little too rough with her shirt and it rips before it hits the bathroom floor. His fingers dig into her skin, thumbs stroking over exposed nipples. He whispers an _I knew it_ as he twists a simple piercing on her left breast. The noise she makes elicits a laugh that shocks Geoff, and they lock eyes and they’re smiling and it’s like the past six months never happened. Like this was where they were both supposed to be.

Griffon squirms out of her jeans, managing to be almost graceful in the confines of the bathtub. She never lets one hand leave Geoff, but it isn’t to feel connected. No, Geoff knows she’s steadying him. She’s making sure he doesn’t fall away back down to the hell of nothingness.

What she doesn’t know is that she is heaven above him. He has seen her skin before, but the feel of her is euphoria. She could float away and he’d be satisfied.

“Come on, I’m not fucking you in a bathtub.” She mutters, twisting and contorting her way out of the tub and the room altogether so that if Geoff needs her, he has to follow her. And he does. He finds her standing in his bedroom, naked and curious, fingertips on the edge of a photograph on his desk. “Is this him?”

“Stop.” Geoff’s static starts to return, the buzz of nothing. “Drop it.” 

“Don’t be so demanding.” Griffon quirps, and Geoff’s stomach drops. He reaches for her, grabs her elbow and shakes her hand away from the photo of Michael. His other hand snags the picture, and without a second thought he’s ripped it in half. “Jesus, Geoff.”

“Sorry,” he starts to apologize. Again. As always.

“Don’t be. You need to get rough? Get rough.” Griffon’s knees practically knock Geoff’s as she curls up against his chest, but he feels sick at the thought. His hands, trembling, find a home at the small of her back and she can feel his energy zap through them both. Nervous.

“Please just… let me make you happy, Griff. I just need… to know I’m capable of that.” His plead is so honest that she looks up at him in surprise, one hand cupping at his neck. She nods, silently, and tugs him backwards toward the bed. She’s his guide, pushing gently against his shoulders until he’s on his back and she can climb up on top, knees on either side of his hips.

Geoff tries to find words for her that don’t have anything to do with the six months of his past he’s avoiding. He tries to say something to her that he hasn’t said to Michael and he can’t. Everything is left with the kid, all of Geoff’s feeling. So they say nothing. Geoff grabs Griffon’s hips in his big hands, twirling her onto her back and pinning her against his sheets. He slides one hand, fingers soft and wise, against her stomach and over her hipbones, until he has three digits halfway down her panties.

He would rip them if he was someone else. If he was going through something else. He would rip them off of her without asking and laugh about it. But since he has no laughter left, he lets her keep them. He circles his middle finger over her clit gently, savoring her shudder. It’s been a long time, but the rhythm comes back to him, and soon he’s watching Griffon’s chest and face blossom with pink.

She’s quick to quiet panting, her hips lifting against his hand as he slides his fingers into her, thumb taking place on her clit. He pulses against her, unable to watch anymore and leaning into her neck to suck deep kisses into her skin. She’s pliable, like liquid under his hand, so he scoots her further up the bed until she’s propped up in his pillows.

It takes little to no pressure to hook his fingers into her panties and pull. She’s out of them in moments and Geoff settles between her thighs, laying gentle kisses up and down her legs. He follows his lips with thumbs, massaging into her thighs as he buries his face into her.

At the first lap of his tongue Griffon is groaning, her hands gripped tight into his hair and her toes rested on his back. She’s warm and wet and he presses his tongue flat against the whole of her, pausing only to press against her clit before starting again. He repeats the motion again and again until she’s humming and rocking her hips into every lap, every wet slick of his tongue. Just when she’s bursting at the seams, full and nearly frozen from pleasure, he dives his tongue into her. He drags his fingers from the bruises he may be leaving on her thighs and back to her clit, circling rapidly as she squeaks and her grip tightens against him.

Geoff switches, dragging his tongue up to take his fingers place and diving his fingers into her pussy. He pumps against her, crooking his fingers against her, and she whimpers into the air with every press of his fingertip.

“Jesus, Geoff, please fuck me.” The sound of her voice startles Geoff and he straightens up out of instinct, leaving one kiss on her pussy to start the trail up her stomach and chest. He takes a moment to suck at her breasts, carefully tugging at her nipple until she begs him one more time.

He isn’t sure that he’d noticed being hard, but he is. He’s needed this, needed closeness, needed his heat tempered by her ice. He’s needed her. He adjusts his dick against her, pressing the tip carefully into her pussy. His lips part, his brain absolutely exploding, every synapses firing off like electricity. Six months. Six months of wasted time. Six months of nothingness. He sinks into Griffon, whose groans match his own, and then out again. His rhythm comes quick, and he reaches for her thighs once again, hooking her knees over his shoulders so he can fuck into her.

Griffon is grinning, one hand between them and working her own clit, the other still held tightly to his reigns. Her voice pitches up high with each thrust, her breath in time with Geoff’s rhythm.

She’s so tight - which Geoff knows just means he fits into her so well. She’s warm and she’s wet and she’s contracting against him as she cums, his name leaving her lips as she drags him down into a kiss. Deep and long, tongues hot and heavy.

“Turn around.” Geoff growls against her throat, and Griffon listens. She flips, letting him adjust her ass into the air and smack at it not twice but three times. He picks up where he left off, fucking into her pussy and reaching a hand up to find a fistfull of her hair. He fucks her recklessly, his free hand wrenched onto her hip or her thigh or her ass, wherever he can grab. It doesn’t take long, and her breathless whining helps him, for him to feel the gut wrenching pressure in his middle.

Geoff cums hard. He holds it back best he can, but it’s been so long since he’s cum into anyone but his own hand. And she’s laughing from her ecstasy, and he’s rocking into her until he’s empty all over. His whole body and his mind blank and white hot. And they collapse against each other, kissing softly through their quiet laughter and tangling into each others’ bodies. 

“God, you must hate yourself almost as much as I do.” Geoff whispers, like it’s some kind of secret dirty talk between them.

Griffon stills, her face going dark as she adjusts to be able to see into his eyes. “Is that why you think I did this?” She’s dimly lit by the lamps scattered around the room, but Geoff can see the anger building. It’s burning in her. She’s getting hot. “Because I hate myself?”

“That’s not what I meant, Griffon-”

“Geoff, just stop. Jesus. Do you start every relationship like this?”

“Relationship? Griffon…” Her face looks stricken. He watches her eyes go bright and then dull, her lips part and then snap shut. The shock and the hurt all at once. “Oh, Griff, please-”

“You’re a real piece of work.” The raw of her voice is so familiar that Geoff is sinking again already. The pit of his stomach has ripped to a chasm, but nothing spills out. There’s nothing inside. “I’m so sorry you got dumped, Geoff. I really am. But I gotta go.” Griffon dresses so fast, just out of sight in Geoff’s stark white bathroom. He can see her in the mirror, the way she doesn’t check her reflection and she knows when she’s found every item she brought.

“Griffon…” He calls, quiet but pleading, and he lifts to the side of the bed and tilts his head into his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Geoff.” Griffon appears in the doorway, her purse on her shoulder. Like she’d never come over at ten pm. Like she’d never laid under Geoff shuddering. “You always will be.”

She leaves without saying goodbye.

Geoff cleans up, pops a beer open. He feeds Jupiter and finds his phone in the backyard, near dead and ice cold. There’s one message on the lock screen… from Michael. And as Geoff slides a thumb over it his heart sinks into his stomach.

_I’m sorry. Please call me?_


End file.
